


unfamiliar purpose

by darthpumpkinspice



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Dark Disciple - Christie Golden
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Loneliness, M/M, The Dark Side of the Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 17:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: After the purge, and after Asajj, Quinlan Vos reconnects with an old friend in an unexpected place.





	unfamiliar purpose

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is closely related to Dark Disciple- however while I know what happens in that story, I've only read about half of it. Hence, there may be some continuity errors. I've always really been fascinated with Vos- I read his comics before they were tragically banished to "Legends" status, and as one of the only Jedi to survive Order 66 (although in the new EU that's technically unconfirmed) I've always wondered what he would've been up to during the Imperial rule. Hope you like, let me know your thoughts!

Quinlan Vos has gazed deep into the abyss, has reached out willingly and with his hands grabbed at the shadow of the force. He has pulled the darkness into himself, stained himself with it, and despite everything that has transpired since- his redemption, his re-admittance into the Order- he does not feel _clean_.

He meditates and scrubs at his soul, but the darkness is still there. It is cold, it is ravenous, and it is sometimes so very, _very_ tempting. Once, Quinlan Vos had to stretch outwards to grasp for the ribbons of the dark side. Now, Quinlan Vos need only look into his own heart.

Now that the Jedi are no more, now that their light has been extinguished, it seems that all light in the galaxy has dimmed. Quinlan Vos finds no solace in meditation, his thoughts spin and run wild with the baser emotions he once was so skilled at quelling.

He feels fear, and rage, and… loneliness ( _he’d never thought a galaxy of trillions could ever feel so empty)._

Meanwhile, the light remains elusive. And in its stead, the darkness expands from a small spot in a chamber in his heart he could once easily ignore, until it is wrapping around his ribs, his lungs. He feels it constantly choking him, crawling all the way up into his throat. It lurks inside, feeding and bloating itself with memories both good and bad- for the darkness does not distinguish between pleasurable and painful passions. Sometimes he stares at his reflection and wonders if that yellow glow to his eyes is just an illusion… or something else.

Quinlan Vos soon finds that for a man on the move, a man without purpose, life can simultaneously take on a dangerous edge and also become dull with monotony. The spaceports all begin to blur together, just single long memory of neon and metal and grime, stretching from Coruscant to Nar Shaddaa to Corellia and so many nameless places in between. He tries to keep his movements restricted to unofficial channels, but the latest port he docks at is crawling with stormtroopers. Last he’d heard, it was Black Sun territory, but apparently the Emperor is shaking things up in the underworld.

Quinlan throws on a ratty cloak that does an adequate job of disguising the Kiffar marks on his cheekbones as well as the synthweave armor that is slightly too militaristic for a nameless port on a planet only identified by a series of numbers and Aurebesh letters. Far as he knows, even the locals don’t have a name for it.

He projects outward with the force, a small localized illusion intended to blur his presence from the scrutiny of others. It’s a simple trick, child’s play at the temple, and it only works on the weak-minded or the distracted, but it proves enough to let him slip by the stormtroopers without detection. Still, the weight of his lightsaber against his hip feels as heavy as the core of a star and just as hot. Quinlan feels the skittish anxiety of a hunted animal, and he supposes as a Jedi he is part of an endangered species. Is he a Jedi? The thought doesn’t do to dwell on, and he dismisses it.

Not for the first time in his life, Quinlan acquaints himself heavily with bars and booze, searching for the brief moments of comfort/forgetting alcohol promises. He finds himself surrounded by all manner of people and creatures- the lost, the dejected, and those simply bored and searching for a cheap thrill. He tunes out countless conversations in countless languages- until the laughter and the ugly shouts and the exotic noises of a dozen alien tongues all blend together into one single roar.

A soft hand brushes against the back of his neck, and it takes every drop of resolve in his body to resist acting on his instincts and breaking the arm the hand is attached to. His body trembles with the effort of keeping it still, and delicate fingers move to play through his dreadlocked hair. Quinlan turns to see a young Twi’lek woman behind him, dressed in a skimpy shimmersilk dress. Her lekku are held together with painted leather bands and the tips are ornamented with cheap jewels intended to resemble diamonds.

“Looking for company?” she asks in heavily accented Basic.

“No,” Quinlan replies shortly.

Her body presses against his, and he feels the warmth of her breath tickling his neck. She smells like perfume and whiskey. “You sure?” Blue hands slide up his legs and press teasingly against his crotch. She seems disappointed by the lack of reaction she finds, and her mouth sets into a pout. “Someone to spend the night with you, then?”

It’s almost tempting. He misses company more then he thought he ever would, and he admits the Twi’lek is lovely to look at. It’s been since Asajj that he’s felt the touch of a woman, and the absence of it looms large. But when he looks at the girl, all he can see is Aayla, and that gnawing yearning in the pit of his stomach is replaced by grief. He has no words to express it, and turns away from her. The girl hisses something insulting in Huttese about his mother and a swamp rat, and huffs off.

He goes back to his ship and decides he’s overstayed his welcome. He’s got enough fuel to go almost anywhere he pleases, and nothing pleases him more than getting away from Imperial territory. The smuggler’s moon of Nar Shaadda is an option, and potentially a profitable one for someone with his talents, but at the moment the idea of going back to that place makes his skin crawl. He decides on something more out of the way, the desert planet with two suns that he’d been to so long ago it feels like it was in another life- a life where he was a dutiful Jedi, and where his heart was filled with the Light.

His ship lifts off into the black expanse of space, and he plugs in the coordinates. There is a hum through the force- perhaps a warning, perhaps approval. For the first time in months, Quinlan Vos feels as if he has just embarked on something…significant. The stars swell, and then contract into a pinprick and his ship is flung into the in-between of hyperspace.

Quinlan Vos reclines back in the pilot’s chair and closes his eyes. Despite the alcohol, he knows sleep will remain elusive. Even when he was a padawan without a care in the galaxy, sleep took time. Back in those days, he would simply meditate, but that was back when the balance was tipped in favor of the light. Now when he meditates the force rages around him like a maelstrom, and that dark thing inside of him rises to answer it. Without meditation, there is a game he sometimes plays, to quiet his mind. Much like a youngling counting nerfs, he uses repetition in an attempt to lull himself into dreams.

 _I am Quinlan Vos_ , he thinks, _Kiffar of the Vos clan. I am a Jedi._ The last thought feels like a lie, so he discards it. _I am Quinlan Vos. Kiffar of the Vos clan. I am Quinlan Vos. Kiffar of the Vos clan._ He loses count of how many times he tells himself this, and eventually his thoughts begin to slow and muddle.

Somewhere before he slips into sleep, they change. _I am Quinlan Vos. Kiffar of the Vos clan. I am Sith._

 _No_ he thinks. _That is not right._ He is not Sith anymore. He is redeemed. But the shadows of Tyranus and Asajj still linger. And Quinlan has always had his own shadows too…

In his dreams, Asajj Ventress stands before him, naked and beautiful. He meets her with a thousand apologies she kisses away.

He pulls her close, holds her tightly, and confesses all the fears and doubts and darkness that have gone unspoken since she died.

 _You would’ve been glorious, had you been born to the Sith. Look at your weakness now. You are impure. You have torn yourself asunder with uncertainty._ Quinlan does not know if it is Asajj, or Dooku, or himself that says this. Maybe it is the Force itself.

He trembles against Asajj, and she moves to caress his face.

 _My love_ she murmurs.

When he awakens, he is alone again, and the desert planet hovers before him.

His brain tells him he should land in Mos Espa- he’d familiarized himself with it over a decade ago, and his memory is still sharp enough to get by. But his gut disagrees- and something more basic then that, an itching instinct from the living force itself….-

He ends up touching down in Mos Eisley. The planet is just as hot and as dusty as he remembers. The twins suns beat down oppressively, and heat shimmers in the air like a mirage. Gangsters are littered outside the spaceport, and perhaps gainful employment exists with them and their kind, but the Force pulls Quinlan away. Something calls to him like a moth to a flame and he follows it past the edge of the town, into the desert itself.

The closer he gets, the more _familiar_ the presence feels. It feels like warm humor and gentle laughter- and blue eyes crinkled in a wry smile. Or maybe that’s just that nasty combination of exhaustion, heat, and thirst getting to Vos. His brain feels slightly fried, as if from a particularly dangerous batch of spice, and his thoughts aren’t quite as coherent as usual. He laughs a little to himself- the desert of Tatooine is proving a vastly superior and wonderfully cheaper intoxicant then alcohol or deathsticks.

Black spots appear around the edge of his vision, and his world sways. With a muted grunt, Quinlan topples over, unconscious.

When he awakens, there is a cool towel against his forehead, and his chest his bare. He tries to rise- too quickly, and he feels bile rise in the back of his throat. A steady hand pushes him back against the ground. Quinlan squints and blue eyes swim into focus.

His first, delusional thought is- _Asajj_. He stifles it, and looks again.

“Kenobi?” he croaks in disbelief.

Obi-Wan smiles. “In the flesh. Although they call me ‘Ben’ here.”

Quinlan’s eyes prickle, wetness spills down his cheeks. It takes a second to register that he is crying.

Obi-Wan’s smile softens into an expression of compassion. “It has been too long, my friend,” he says softly.

Quinlan removes the cloth and forces himself to sit upright. “I didn’t know if anyone else was still alive. How many survived the purge?”

“Yoda is in exile. I don’t know about anyone else.” Obi-Wan pauses, examines Quinlan. “You look well.”

“I do not feel well,” Quinlan admits. Tentatively, he braces a booted foot against the ground and stands. The room does him the curtesy of staying steady. He takes a second to make sure he’s not in danger of toppling over, then looks back to Obi-Wan. “I feel disconnected. The Force is out of balance and I feel…wrong.”

Obi-Wan stretches out a hand, rests it on Quinlan’s shoulder. “I have to. Since the purge, nothing has felt right.”

 _Not since the purge_ Quinlan thinks _since before that. Since Asajj died, since I was corrupted, maybe before even that._ But he merely nods, and with a shudder pushes his emotions away.

“Are you staying long?” Obi-Wan asks, and there is an almost imploring tone in his voice. For the first time, Quinlan lets himself really look at Kenobi and takes in the unkemptness of his once impeccable hair, the faint wrinkles already settling on his handsome face, and the glazed weariness of a man that has gone too long without undisturbed sleep.  

“Not long, I think. I’m trying to find…” Quinlan pauses. The sentence dangles between them, unfinished.

But Kenobi, always the consummate negotiator and wordsmith, plucks the rest of the thought from Quinlan’s subconscious. “Purpose.”

For the second time in so many minutes, Quinlan finds himself nodding wordlessly again.

“I understand,” Kenobi says, and despite his best efforts to disguise it, his sadness is palpable. “I had to remove your armor to cool you down. I’ve left it in the other room with your lightsaber and other possessions. You’d be free to take them and leave now, if you pleased.” He pauses. “But if you wanted to spend the night, you’d be most welcome.” Obi-Wan’s voice cracks almost imperceptibly, and his next words are soft. “I’ve thought about you more then I’d care to admit. You and Asajj both. Last I heard you were with your troops on Boz Pity and then…. I thought you were dead, Quinlan.

“Seeing you alive, I could practically convince myself I was dreaming. Except, I only have nightmares now.”

Quinlan offers a grin that is too bitter to be sincere. “We’re both tough sons of Hutts, aren’t we? We just refuse to die.”   

“Do you want to go outside?” Obi-Wan asks suddenly. “The suns are setting now, and I’m sure you remember how glorious the sunsets are here.”

Obi-Wan is right- the sunset is just as magnificent as he remembers. With the sky alight in fiery reds and majestic purples, even the dust and sand look beautiful. Illuminated, the desert could almost be mistaken for a massive sprawl of endless gold. They stay out there until the suns descend below the horizon, and one by one the stars emerge. The two men silently lay back on the cool sand and gaze at the inky sky until it is filled with more constellations then they can count.

“Come in with me,” Obi-Wan murmurs. He stands first, and offers his hand to pull Quinlan up. Quinlan accepts it, and when he’s risen to his feet he doesn’t let go. Kenobi’s hand is calloused and rough from the hardship of his new life, but comfortingly warm. It squeezes lightly around the other man’s, and a shock goes through Quinlan at the touch. The dull, nagging loneliness in his gut abruptly becomes a sharp stabbing pain, and he lets Kenobi’s hand drop as if it burned him. If Obi-Wan is confused, or disappointed, he says nothing.

When they are back at Obi-Wan’s dwelling, Quinlan strips to his underclothes with an efficiency learned in the early days of the Clone Wars, and searches for an empty space on the floor.

Kenobi, who has also shed his garments, stops him with a firm shake of the head and a smile. “You’ll take the bed. What kind of host would I be if I made my guest sleep on the floor?”

“I wouldn’t kick you off your bed because of my intrusion,” Quinlan argues back.

“Then share it with me,” Obi-Wan offers.

Quinlan feels his heart jump a beat, acutely aware of the fact he hasn’t shared a bed (in any sense of the word) with anyone in far too long.

“It’s been too long since I’ve had company, let alone pleasant company,” Obi-Wan continues. “I would find it…agreeable.”        

They climb into the bed together, and hold each other close. Quinlan’s chest presses against Kenobi’s back, his head resting against his shoulder. With a low murmur, Obi-Wan takes one of Quinlan’s hands and kisses it.

 _Lust feeds the dark side_ Quinlan tells himself. And then Kenobi is sucking on Quinlan’s fingers, taking them deep into his mouth, and Quinlan decides he doesn’t particularly care. _I’ve done enough things to feed the darkness already. What more will this do?_ And with that surrender to his passions, something hungry deep in his belly rumbles out an approving purr.

Quinlan’s fingers knot into Kenobi’s hair, and he trails his lips down the man’s neck, along his chest, and arriving lower. Quinlan takes the other man into his mouth and when Obi-Wan has been sated, he spreads his legs apart. Silently, Quinlan pushes inside of him, and for the briefest of moments the shared intimacy is enough to let him forget about all the treachery and horrors of the galaxy that lay beyond their bed.  

The next morning is a bittersweet one. “Come with me,” Quinlan offers. He’s already put his armor back on, and secured his lightsaber to his hip.

Obi-Wan smiles faintly. “My purpose is here, my friend. And yours in out there somewhere. I hope you find it.”

Quinlan kisses him on the lips. “I won’t forget you.”

Quinlan doesn’t stay on Tatooine long. The stars are calling, and the beast in his belly is already becoming restless. Perhaps Nar Shaddaa next, after all.  


End file.
